We Cannot All be Queens
by Mercury Gray
Summary: Peter, shunted off to college to prevent him from enlisting or being called up for service, goes out on a limb and tries acting.
1. Chapter 1

OH, fun! Mercury's started herself another fanfic! The first chapter's short, don't worry, but the second chapter's longer, to make up for it.

* * *

Peter slammed his suitcase down on the bed, the resulting crash of bedsprings echoing through the dorm that was to be his home for the next nine months. So this was Oxford- sleepy little college town and the last place Peter wanted to be. The first place he wanted to be was up at the front, fighting for god, country and family, like his dad.

But Mum had put a wrench in all that, hadn't she? Getting him the scholarship here and practically tying him to his train ticket and shoving him on the train. The war would be over any day now- he could feel it- and he wanted a piece of the action before he was one of the only lads his age that hadn't gone.

A rather sobering thought came to him then- the thought of seeing Edmund nearly dieing on that battlefield in Narnia. _How would Mum feel if you died, too? We don't know where Dad is_. Lucy's voice came through his head, at ten ever the voice of reason. _It'd be really awful to lose both of you._

Peter sighed, and looked around his Spartan quarters, unloading the slim pickings of his wardrobe into the dented and dinged chest of drawers next to his bed. On the desk, he set out his pencils and a few battered pens, the ink jar Susan had labeled, in her consummate handwriting, "Peter Pensevie." In the first drawer of the desk, he unwrapped a circlet made of wire from a stack of well-worn handkerchiefs and laid in on top of his copybooks.

Susan, ever the artist, had made it from bits of airplane parts and wire from the rubble that littered the streets of Finchly, giving it to him privately as a going away present. "Never forget you're a king somewhere." She'd said, smiling in that secretive way while he put it on his head.

Peter sighed again. He was an awful long way from home.

* * *

reveiws?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

* * *

Oxford's campuses were sparsely populated, true, but they weren't totally barren of fresh young minds thirsting for knowledge, or a way to get out of service on the front. Peter didn't make friends easily with these pacifists and rebels against society, who drank in seedy bars and cabarets in the city when they could go and discussed philosophy and free love. But he found a few friends; his dorm mate, Nathan Kincade, and a few other lads who played cricket on the lawn when the air raid sirens weren't going off.

Peter blinked at the shaft of light coming through the heavy blackout curtains right into his eyes. He turned over, looking at the clock, sitting up in shock. 7:50- and his first class at 8! "Why doesn't the alarm work any more?" he asked drowsily, shaking Nate awake and dodging blows from his still very heavily sleeping friend.

"Get off, mate, she's mine…" Nate growled, turning over and hugging his pillow. Peter shook his head- Nate constantly had girls on the brain, and his sleep was no exception. Peter did his best air raid siren impression straight into Nate's ear, which woke him up right off, and then scrambled around, looking for a clean pair of socks and his loafers.

Nate and he pelted across campus, academic robes flying as they ran to get to their lecture on Medieval literature.

"Does the Professor give out detentions?" Nate asked quickly, his voice winded.

"Only if you can't recite something he likes." Peter, equally winded, shot back.

"Damn!" Nate, who liked to brag he never read anything for a course (which was entirely untrue) certainly never memorized anything. Peter, on the other hand, might be able to pull something out of his head at the last moment.

They barreled into lecture just as the Professor was beginning his talk. He glared at them, and beckoned them to the front of the class.

"Kincade and…Pensevie, isn't it? Oversleep, did we?"

The pair nodded in unison.

"Well then. If you'd like to spare yourselves the dubious honor of returning here after dinner tonight to copy lines, perhaps you might enlighten us with a little bit of poetry." The Professor sat back on his desk, waiting. "Mr. Kincade? We are waiting."

Nate scuffled his shoes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir…I don't know anything."

The Professor frowned, and turned to Peter. "Mr. Pensevie?"

Peter opened his mouth, finding his tongue had gone dry, and licked his lips nervously. Then he started the first thing that came into his head.

"There was a land, across the sea, with rolling fields of green

The star of castles shimmered there, a white light not unseen

Cair Paravel, beside the sea, with four thrones at its heart

'Twas there that the great mysteries of Narnia should start

For when four thrones beheld four kings all made of Adam's blood

Spring should begin in Narnia, and bold new hope should bud."

The professor looked amused. "Mr. Pensevie, did you make that up yourself?"

Peter shook his head, this being the truth; Mr. Tumnus, appointed poet of the realm, had come up with those lines, and a great many more besides.

"Well, since I have never heard of Narnia, or the castle at Cair Paravel, I must deduce that this is some newer poet I have not read yet. Very well delivered, by the way. Mr. Pensevie, take your seat. Mr. Kincade, detention, see me after class for a time." Thus, the lecture began.

It was nearly half way through the lecture when the Professor did something odd and asked for a volunteer. No one raised a hand. "Right then. Mr. Kincade, come here. Take this" He handed Nate a broadsword, which nate almost dropped at the weight, "and wait here." The Professor came back a few moments later with a large pasteboard cut out of what looked to be Grendel. Of course, there was a rather unwieldy crayon scrawl across his eyes, but he looked ferocious, all the same. A few people snickered at the crayon, and the Professor glanced at it. "And that is what happens when you borrow your daughter's crayons and then leave the room for a moment." He supplied good naturedly. "Now, Mr. Kincade, would you mind taking a swing at Grendal here for me?"

"If I could lift this thing…" Nate said, struggling a little. He managed to bring the sword up and send it crashing down again- Grendal didn't bat an eyelash as he lost a bit of a finger.

"Anyone else want to try? How about you, Mr. Pensevie?" He caught Peter gazing at the sword and remembering his own, probably hanging on some wall somewhere in Narnia. Why was it they were doing this again? He'd forgotten.

Peter looked around and cautiously got up out of his seat, took the sword from Nate, gave it a few practice hefts first, and then, to the amazement of all, cleanly took of Grendal's massive arm with a whistling sound as the sword cut air, paper and cardboard.

The Professor was impressed. "Well, well, Mr. Pensevie, you are a box of tricks today, aren't you? Take your seats, please, you two."

The lecture continued without further incident, but after class Peter was mobbed by fellows he'd never even talked to before, wondering where he'd learned to do that.

"Oh, out in the country." He said vaguely. "My brother and I got really bored, and, well, my little sis likes playacting…"

"Have you considered trying out for the play? We're in need of a few good actors to strut the boards with." A thin, lanky fellow Peter knew only as 'Shakespeare', called so because he was a thespian, through and through. "And someone with your skill with a sword could probably get a big part in 'The Swan Song.'"

"The Swan Song?" Peter asked, dubious. Shakespeare nodded.

"Come to auditions- our common room, 5 o'clock on Friday. Won't take ten minutes." The thespian assured him.

"How did you learn to do that?" Nate asked, rubbing his arms as they walked to their dorm.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Peter said, speeding up his pace to get to lunch on time to get a good seat and a decent slice of shepherd's pie.

"Try me!" Nate shouted after him, running to catch up.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Having been alerted to my mistake in the last two chapters, the name is Pevensie now, not Pensevie.

* * *

Peter walked quietly through the hall, looking for the bulletin board where the cast listing was supposed to be. There was a small crowd there now, a few girls filtering away from the board until just one was left. Peter stalled for a moment, not really wanting to talk to her. She was searching for her name on the cast listing, her index finger moving down the list.

Peter walked up, hands in his pockets, and made a show of looking at the other postings on the board. The girl next to him sighed, talking to herself.

"Lady Agnes, lady-in-waiting. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride." Her shoulders slumped, and her face fell a little, composing itself again in a moment when she saw Peter there. He turned to look at the list.

"Didn't get the part you wanted?" he asked.

"Yeah." The girl said. "I thought maybe this year I'd get a bigger part than Lady in Waiting."

Peter glanced back to the list. "Margaret Ramsden?" he asked, reading the neatly typed list. She nodded, shuffling her pocketbook to her left arm to shake his hand. Looking at her, face to face, she really wasn't that bad looking; a bit homely, perhaps, but quite pretty nonetheless.

"Peter Pevensie." He supplied. Margaret looked back on the list.

"But …you're playing the lead!" she said, her face lit up with surprise. Peter looked at the list in astonishment. Sure enough, there he was, first on the list. Peter Pensevie- King Balan.

"That can't be right. I thought Shakespeare…" Peter trailed off.

"Shakespeare? Oh, you mean Eddy Shakely. Yeah, he normally gets the bigger roles. See, he's playing the villain, Rorick. He must really think you're good if you got the lead." Margaret said, her smile fading away as she turned to leave, her heels clicking on the tile floor of the empty hallway.

Peter stopped for a moment. "Margaret!" He yelled down the hallway. She stopped, and turned around. He ran up, catching his breath for a moment. "Do you think…maybe…we might go have a cup of tea, sometime?" Peter asked, his voice all a rush. Margaret smiled.

"Sure, maybe, King Balan. See you at practice." She said with a smile, opening the door and letting a draft of autumn air into the hallway.

Peter practically skipped up the stairs to his dorm room.

"What's got you in such a good mood all of a sudden?" Nate asked, wrestling with calculus homework.

"I made the play." Peter said, flopping down on his bed. Nate turned around, ready for any distraction at all.

"Oh, really. And what part did you get?"

"The lead!" Peter said triumphantly. "And I just found myself a date."

Nate sat up, outraged. "You cad! Who?"

"One of the girls from the play. She was checking the list, and I asked if she wanted to go for a cup of tea sometime."

Nate smiled. "You sly devil, you! First the play, then a girl. Some blokes have all the luck." He said, turning back to his calculus.

Peter unwound his scarf, ducking through a doorway to the little theater where they would be rehearsing "The Swan Song" for the next several months. Shakespeare, or Eddy now, was handing out scripts. He smiled at peter and clapped him on the back. "I've got good feelings about this, Balan. Good feelings. No pressure, all right?"

Peter smiled thinly and found Margaret, very much alone, flipping through with her pen and marking her script. "Does he not remember my name? He just called me Balan." He asked, scooting into the seat next to her.

"No, he does that to everyone. For the next three months, you're King Balan to him, not Peter Pevensie."

"Quiet down, people. Quiet!" A tweedy man with thick glasses and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm said, waving his hands for quiet.

"Mr. Allenby- he teaches Rhetorical Studies and Theatre Arts, plus he sponsors the Theatre Guild, who runs these little productions." Margaret whispered to Peter amid the shuffling quiet. Peter remembered him from the audition, scribbling away notes.

"I'm very happy to see some new faces this year, as well as some old returning ones too. Who's ready to begin rehearsals?" A general roar went up from the actors and Mr. Allenby smiled. "Right then. To business! Today we'll just have a read through. Where's my King and Queen?"

Peter raised his hand, looking around for another somewhere in the sparsely seated theater. Mr. Allenby checked his list. "Sophie? Sophie, I know you're here somewhere…"

A blonde head popped up from between the rows of seats. "Sorry Mr. Allenby. I dropped my…pencil." She said with a giggle. Margaret rolled her eyes.

"Dropped her drawers, more like." She said under her breath.

Mr. Allenby seemed oblivious to any mischief making, and waved vaguely for them to begin.

The Swan Song was a rather romantic and contrived piece- the villain, Rorrick, was attempting to woo the queen into killing her husband so that he can become king. When she refuses, he poisons her so that she may only do his bidding. When her lady in waiting, Agnes, tells the king and thwarts Rorrick's plot, he turns the queen into a swan, unable to speak and warn her King that Rorrick is trying to kill him. In the end, the queen turned swan lures the king outside with her singing while Rorrick waits in the garden, ready to kill the king. The queen takes the knife meant for the king, dies, and thus, the story ends sadly.

Peter's part was indeed, rather large, but not so large as Rorrick or the Queen. Peter didn't quite understand how it was that he had gotten such a large part, since he had absolutely no experience whatsoever. _No experience acting, _Peter thought ruefully._ But I've had plenty of experience being a king. Maybe that's how I got the part. _

That lack of acting experience didn't, however, stop Sophie from flirting like mad with him. He just managed to slip away from her to ask Margaret, packing her bag, if he might walk her home, since it was getting dark out.

"Is she always like that?" Peter asked, walking down the dark sidewalks with Margaret's bag in hand.

"Sophie? Yes, unfortunately. She's a little promiscuous…but she's a good enough actress."

"You're better, I think." It was true. Sophie's lines, even in read through, seemed over-delivered, dripping with seduction and wile where there shouldn't have been any. Margaret seemed perfect with her voice.

"That's kind of you, Peter, but Sophie's got the looks, and she's not afraid to flaunt them. Just once, though, I'd like to play the lead, the queen or princess or what have you. Just to spite her." She said this with such venom that Peter had to laugh.

"I'm sure you will, someday."

* * *

So no one caught my small, Lilliputian reference to Lewis' freind Tolkien the other day, did they?

Professor of medieval literature with a capital P indeed. Well, anyway. Thank you all so much for your kind comments! Continue to provide me with feedback so I can in turn provide better reading material for you, the wonderful people who slog through this stuff.

Merc Gray


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

Something to tide you over while I take finals and rip my hair out. I'm blaming Ian for it's shortness.

_ Shoves Ian out _ distract them while I run away!

Ian: Ah…hi?

"Balan! Hey, Balan!"

Peter, altogether too used to his alias now, turned around to see Ed Shakely running up to him, coat unbuttoned and flapping as he ran.

"Ed, it's Peter. Not Balan." Peter said sharply, a little more than annoyed at his co-actor at the moment.

"Forgive me, tis a grievous habit." Ed said dramatically, no sincerity whatsoever evident in his voice. Peter shot him an angry look and kept walking, hands deep in his pockets. "Look, Pevensie, it's a technique. Don't you know anything about technique?"

"I never went to acting school, Ed." Peter said, not stopping his brisk pace. Ed, however, stopped dead in his tracks for a moment.

"Wait. You've never taken a class, nothing?" A nod. "Then how did you get so good?" Ed grabbed Peter's shoulder, turning him around to face him. "Pevensie, I watch you onstage, every day, and you look and sound like the real thing. Where'd you get so good if you never took a class?"

Peter took a deep breath, doing some really quick thinking. "Last year my mum sent my sisters, my brother and I to the country. We lived in a big house with a lot of historical stuff in it, and my little sister loved to play dress up. So we had to play along a bit." Some of this was, of course, true. The house in the country bit, though; Lucy hated dress up.

"That still doesn't explain the sword." Ed said, his face and voice dubious.

"Playacting in old clothes isn't much fun if there's no battles. At least if you're my brother. In a family of four, you have to give and take a little so everyone's happy, and Ed wouldn't play with us unless there were some battles. " Peter said with a shrug, continuing back to his dorm, having told more than his share of lies today.

Ed seemed to find this satisfactory, as he continued his pursuit no more, returning to his own dorm to ruminate on the veracity of Peter Pevensie's plot.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

I took their ages off the movie in this story, if you hadn't already noticed. Peter is supposed to be 14, but judging from the envious look he gave the soldier in the train station during the movie, he (and his siblings) is /are a tad bit older.

And before anyone tries to correct me, I just made up integrated metaphysics.

"Tell me about your family." Margaret said, smiling at him through the profuse steam coming off of her cup of tea. They were sitting in the little campus pub The Twin Moon Taproom, a sedate little place that gave you funny looks if you didn't come in looking for a few pints and a place to do your integrated metaphysics homework.

Peter smiled, leaned back in his chair. "My family?" Margaret nodded enthusiastically, making Peter wonder if there wasn't something a little stronger than tea in that teapot.

"Well, I'm the oldest, and after me there's Susan, who's…16 now. She's taking up trumpet, I guess, and, ah, apparently she's getting really good. And she's a looker, is our Susan. Mum's threatening to make me come home so that I can keep the boys out of our house, but if I know Susan, she'll have them in check.

"Then there's Edmund, who's twelve. He's very serious for his age now, going out for president of his class and the chess team and the fencing club and God knows what else. He's a bit of a pain sometimes, but he's a good sort- you'd like him. And then there's Lucy, the youngest, who's nine now. and…well, she's Lucy. You have to meet her to understand her. Dreams up the wildest stuff- says she wants to be a painter when she grows up." Peter sipped his tea and smiled, staring off into the snow outside the window and wondering when he'd become such a consummate liar.

Margaret stirred her own cup, saying softly, "You miss them a lot, don't you?"

Peter nodded. "I nearly lost Edmund, once. Got in a horrid accident, almost died. I'd kind of…hated him before that. But your brother's your brother, right? I appreciate them a lot more, after all we've been through together."

"They sound like quite a bunch." Margaret complimented, blowing on her tea. "I'd like to meet them all some time."

"They're all coming down for the play. You could meet them then." Peter suggested, finishing his tea to the dregs and tapping his spoon on the saucer for a few distracted moments before stopping. "Margaret?" He asked, looking up at her from his saucer. She put down her cup to peer at him, gently expectant. "Do you… think we might be able to do this…again, some time?"

Margaret smiled. "Sure. I enjoyed it."

Peter smiled, blushing a little. "We should get going, we'll be late for practice."

Glancing at her watch, Margaret jumped. "Goodness, you're right! Where's my pocketbook?" she asked, shuffling through her coat.

"Don't worry about it, I've got it." Peter said, taking out his wallet to go pay the cashier.

"Free of charge." The old man at the counter said. "Was a pleasure watching you and your girlfriend there talking. A pretty pair, you are."

Peter smiled and blushed again, tipping him and pulling on his coat. Margaret looked at him with a suspicious smile as they walked out. "Peter, why are you laughing?"

"He…he thought we were dating." Peter said with a chuckle. Margaret stopped.

"Well, aren't we?" she questioned plainly. Peter stopped, too, turning around to look at her.

"Ah….Are we?" He asked, plainly very much confused as to what might be the right answer.

"Peter Pevensie, I would hope you would think we were, after I asked to meet your family and you took me out for tea. Besides, what would my friends think?" Margaret asked, smiling. Peter shrugged.

"I have no idea, Lady Agnes. What would they think?" Peter asked, mock serious. Margaret, mouth open, scooped up a bit of snow and threw it at him.

"They would think, King Balan, that I am being a little looser than I let on!" she said, throwing more snow at him. Peter laughed, holding up his arms to shield his face, kept going.

"Are you generally not loose?" This was the point when Peter started running and Margaret started chasing him, the former dodging snowballs all the way to play practice.

"Help, help, I'm being attacked!" Peter yelled, running into the theatre.

Margaret ran in a few moments later, her face red, nearly running into Sophie, who happened to be walking by the door at the time. The blonde actress gave her a patrician hair flip and went to brush the snow off of Peter's coat. "Here, it's all right, my darling _husband_. I'm sure my _lady-in-waiting_, " she threw the disdain on triple thick at Margaret's title, "will apologize shortly."

Peter gently shoved her hand away. "It's all right. We were just having a bit of fun. No need to take it so seriously."

Sophie did take it seriously; A can of bright blue paint found it's way mysteriously onto the front of Margaret's jumper, "And I'll be willing to bet my mother's pearls it was her that put it there and tipped it over, too." Margaret said, trudging home with the paint drenched sweater in a paper bag clenched tightly in her fist.

"I'm sorry about Sophie. She…seems to take this whole King/Queen thing very seriously. Maybe I should stop walking you home for a little while, while she calms down." Peter suggested, handing Margaret her book bag when they got to her front door. Margaret shook her head.

"If my sweaters have to suffer so I can get walked home by Peter Pevensie, so be it." She declared, setting down her things so she could grab the lapels of his coat and kiss him on the cheek. She smiled, picking up her bags and letting herself into the house.

And Peter stood outside in the snow, smiling like a fool. Then he skipped home, grinning broadly.

_:holds breath and bites lip:_ You…liked it, no?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

A great many more cups of tea, a few more walks home and one more paint drenched object later, Margaret and Peter were what Peter termed 'officially dating.' And he was very happy about it. Nate was still a little sore at not being the Casanova between the two of them and was convinced Peter and Margaret's relationship was a bit less platonic than they let on ("That scene shop's a big place, you know. Could hide in there for hours and never have anyone find you.")

There was one more week of rehearsals until the show, and that meant crunch time for the costumes department. Mr. Allenby pulled Peter aside after rehearsal Monday, his face grim. "Now, I don't normally like to do this, Pevensie, but we're having a time of it finding a crown for you, and Ed says you used to playact with your family. So, if there's any chance you've got a crown hanging around your house, could you bring it in and see if it's preferable to pasteboard?"

Peter nodded, smiling and thinking of the wire crown Susan had made for him, sitting in his desk drawer with his pencil box. "I've got just the thing."

* * *

When he came to pick Margaret up from her house to walk her to practice, she, too, was carrying another bag- a portfolio, this time. "What is it?" Peter asked nicely, slinging her school bag over his own shoulder and slipping his hand into her now free one.

"I'm not telling unless you tell me what's in here." Margaret smiled and rattled the paper bag Peter's crown was in, wrapped up in his handkerchiefs again.

"Well, then, I guess you'll have to wait. It's a surprise." Peter murmured, smelling her hair as he whispered in her ear. She gave a little laugh and battered away his nose by shaking her head a little bit.

After they had deposited their things backstage, Peter pulled Margaret into the scene shop for a little privacy. "You first." He said, pointing at the portfolio.

Margaret's shoulders slumped, and she smiled, sighing as she opened the portfolio. "It's your Christmas present." She said, slipping out a large piece of thick drawing paper. It was a charcoal rendition of him in his costume, which he had tried on the other day and worn all practice.

Peter looked at it and smiled. "I think the king still needs a crown." He identified, un-crumpling the top of the paper bag to pull out Susan's crown and place it on his own head. "What do you think?" he queried, posing.

Margaret, taken aback, gasped. "Peter, it's beautiful. Where on earth did you get it?"

"Susan made it for me, a little while ago. It was a going-away present." He said with a smile, putting it on Margaret's head. "There. Now you can be queen. My queen." He whispered, his hands on her shoulders. Margaret looked up at him. She started to say something, then stopped.

"Sophie's been saying she can't wait for Allenby to make you kiss her. Because it'll be your first onstage kiss." She confessed.

"Would you mind doing me the honor now, then? I know we're not onstage, but…" Peter asked, his hands suddenly hot. Margaret nodded, a tiny motion that made her eyes sparkle, and opened her face up to his. It was a short, sweet, and quick kiss, one that merited another, longer, sweeter one. The door to the scene shop banged open, and they stopped, still affixed to each other, listening.

"I'm telling you, one of my kisses, and that Margery girl hasn't got a chance. I'm looking forward to Scene four of the first act today- Mr. Allenby's told me we're going to do the kiss today. Peter's too good for her, really." Sophie was telling one of her lackey friends. Margaret made a scared little sound, her eyes darting over to her portfolio, on which the charcoal drawing rested. There was a paint can nearby, the result of the stage crew's general messiness while they went for dinner.

Peter looked around for any escape; if Sophie found them here, even if they weren't kissing, it would be curtains for the charcoal drawing Margaret had slaved over. The footsteps were coming nearer, and his eyes settled on the costumes closet. He yanked Margaret in, closing the door just enough so that a hairsbreadth of light spilled it. Margaret, not finding the light switch, found Peter instead, pressing up against him as they moved backwards, trying to find the back of the closet. Peter's expectant hand brushed across organdy, corduroy, what felt like a fur coat, and then- air. He then realized that there was a light behind him. Margaret, already turned around, stared.

"Oh my," she said. "Where are we?"

* * *

and for those of you who wanted longer chapters…well, I'm sorry, but I stop where I want. sooo...CLIFFHANGER. You can all suffer in anticipation. 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Well, I was going to write a false start to this chapter and make you hate me, but I'm not that evil, and I think you all have the general idea of where this is going, so I'm not going to fool anyone with that.

Chapter seven, folks!

* * *

Peter turned around towards the light, and his mouth dropped open. "My god…I never thought I see this place again." He exclaimed softly, walking into the room that had been his while he reined as High King of Narnia.

Everything was just as he had left it that morning, so long ago now, it seemed, when they had rode out in pursuit of the White Stag. His bed-clothes tossed on his pillow, an open book on his bedside table, maps spread-eagled across his desk, gathering dust. The only thing that had changed was that his crown, which he had been wearing that day, now sat back on his desk, gleaming, untouched by the dust around it.

He turned to look at Margaret, staring at him. "Peter…where are we?" she asked again, looking scared.

Peter licked his lips, finding them very dry. "Let's sit down, this could take awhile." He said, leading her over to sit on his bed and pulling over a brocaded stool.

He told her everything, beginning with them being sent out of Finchly and the air raids and him wanting to serve in the army, and Professor Kirke's house and Lucy's finding of the wardrobe and above all, Narnia and all their adventures there. When he had finished with the battle bit and Aslan, he got up to go over to his desk, picking up the crown and bringing it over to her. She took the wire circlet off her head, smiling. "Susan made you a duplicate." She said in a small voice, still amazed. "All those things you said about playacting in the country…"

"Was a well constructed lie. I couldn't tell everyone I'd been to a magical land in a wardrobe and had been king there for nearly twenty years." Peter reasoned, setting the wire crown back on her head and kissing her nose. "Forgive me?"

Margaret nodded, holding his hands and kissing his cheek. "Without fail." She whispered.

There was a clatter of steps at the door, and a very familiar voice whispered, "Oh my stars, High King Peter!"

Peter looked up to see a familiar looking face. "Tumnus, is that you?" he asked, getting up and studying the faun. Margaret looked over, and her eyes became as big as saucers.

The faun, wearing the green velvet scarf embroidered with the lion sigil that was the symbol of the Royal Poet, shook his head. "Tumnus was my grandfather, and has been dead these many years. I am Iverin, son of Gaverin, son of Tumnus."

"Well then, Iverin, son of Gaverin, can you tell me how things fare in Narnia?"

The faun's face fell, and he toyed with the fringe on the end of his scarf nervously, looking down at his neat little hooves. "Since you and your Noblest Quartet left, your majesty, Narnia has been…hard pressed. There were the deliberations with the Rimmeans that went unfinished, and when Queen Susan did not marry Prince Uriel when it was expected, they threatened war…the fleet is hardly ever home, and the King…" he trailed off.

"Now is not the time to be burdening Peter with such problems, Iverin son of Gaverin. He does not rule in Narnia now, though he will forever be its king." A deep voice interrupted. Margaret let out a gasp.

"It …talks." she whispered, her voice squeaky. Peter patted her shoulder and smiled at the newcomer.

"Hello, Aslan."

* * *

_smile _


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

* * *

"Well, Peter, son of Adam, I see you have found Narnia again." Aslan intoned, his voice as deep and soft as Peter remembered it. "And you have brought a queen with you."

Margaret shrank back, smiling in that nervous way, her hand cold inside Peter's. "He's not a tame lion, but he is a good one." Peter whispered. "He won't bite you."

"Come, touch my mane, Daughter of Eve." Aslan said, moving forward a little bit and tilting his head. Nervously, her hand shaking, Margaret held out a hand and stroked his fur.

She gave a little laugh. "It's so…soft. And warm." She said, her fear receding more as her hand petted the silky mane around Aslan's face.

"Come with me, Daughter of Eve, and see what Peter ruled." Aslan said, and Margaret, one hand still on Aslan's back and the other holding tight to Peter's, followed him to the throne room.

Peter softly squeezed her hand as they entered the great hall, vacant now, the four great thrones draped in robes of ermine. She let go of Aslan, letting Peter lead her up the steps to sit in his throne, looking out over the empty hall. Peter could see her thoughts, imagining people filling the hall, trumpets sounding, and the general revels of a busy court. Aslan seemed to smile. "I will leave you here a while." He said, quietly padding off, letting them have a little time alone.

When he had gone, Peter studied Margaret. "What do you think?" heasked, smiling at her again. Margaret was in a bit of shock.

"I…I don't know what to say, Peter. It's all a bit much for one day." She responded, her fingers stroking the ermine.

"You said you always wanted to be a queen." Peter supplied. Margaret looked at the folds of her skirt and quickly got up off the throne, sitting instead on the stone steps in front of it, her head in her hands. "What is it?" Peter asked, frightened. What was it he'd said?

"I know I said that, Peter, but…Well, we can't all be queens, can we? I can't…slay dragons or fight witches. I'm not beautiful, or wise, or…" she stopped, a tear forming in her eye as she took off the wire crown and set it down beside her. Peter sat down, putting his arm around her shoulder.

"You're a queen to me, Margaret Ramsden. From the moment I met you, I liked you, and I wanted to tell you this entire crazy story about the wardrobe, but I didn't know if I could. And you've been an terribly good sport about it ever since I got you in here."

She sniffled, and then started crying. Peter hugged her close, a few hot tears soaking into his shirt. "Please don't cry, Margaret. I didn't want this to hurt you."

"It didn't." Margaret whispered between sobs. "It's just all too grand for me."

"You can be a queen plenty of other ways, too." Peter consoled, kissing her hair and holding her close, feeling very alien just then, in that place he had called home for so long. "What do you say to a trip to the beach?"

Margaret looked up, producing a handkerchief and sniffling into it. "The beach?" she asked, interested. Peter nodded.

"I may able to introduce you to some mermaids." Peter added conspiratorily. Margaret managed a smile.

"I think I'd like that."

* * *

To those of you who wanted longer chapters…well, bah. I don't feel like writing them. 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

When Peter and Margaret emerged from the costumes closet a few Narnia hours later, tears dried, fears overcome and feelings mended, the facts are these-

Peter, in a fit of pique to spite his co-actress, decided to practice Scene 4 of Act One with Margaret as a stand-in for Sophie.

Sophie, coming down the stairs as she had been before they left, could not help but stare at the rather passionate kiss transpiring between her costars.

Staring, she didn't have the presence of mind to watch where she was going and tripped over a can of paint, the same can of paint Margaret was so scared of earlier. (The paint spilled, ruining a perfectly good skirt of Sophie's and the edge of Margaret's charcoal sketch, but that is not the issue here.)

In short, Sophie broke her leg in two places and fractured her wrist on the way down, leaving her in the hospital for the next two weeks and counting her out of any production of 'The Swan Song'.

Subsequently, it was found that her understudy, Lottie, had contracted a bad case of the stomach flu over the weekend and was not allowed within a mile of another human not the doctor or her immediate family.

Allenby threw up his hands at this point and made for the worst of it until someone told him Margaret knew Sophie's lines and _her_ understudy was quite well; he fainted from excitement and had to be revived with a glass of cold water to the face.

That week went by like a flash of lightning. Costumes were fitted, lights were put up, sets were painted, and Peter (though he hated to admit it) had a lot of fun kissing Margaret, though it was in front of a crowd of people who cat-called and told off color jokes behind their hands at every chance they could.

And then, just as soon as the mad dream had started, opening night was upon them. Peter knew his mother was bringing all three siblings to come see him, so proud of her son and his accomplishment.

Peter stood in the wings, waiting for the show to start, listening to the excited buzz of voices beyond the curtain- Allenby said they were playing to a nearly full house.

"Nervous much?" Margaret asked behind him, smiling as he turned around to see her in her costume. "Your hands are shaking. Very badly, I may add."

"You look better in that dress than Sophie ever did." Peter assured her as she did a little twirl for him.

"I wanted to look nice for your parents." Margaret smiled.

Peter stopped. "Parents?" he asked, hope springing into his heart.

Margaret stopped and corrected herself. "Parent and siblings." She apologized. Peter's face fell. "I'm sorry, Peter, I forgot…"

"Don't worry about it." Peter said, brushing it off a little bit more abruptly than he might have meant to. Kissing her hair, the only part of her he could kiss without potentially ruining her make-up, he felt more nervous now than he had before. _I just wish it didn't have to be only Mother here_…he thought to himself.

Mr. Allenby walked up with his clip board, straightening out a musty looking suit and tie. "Ready to knock them dead?" he asked excitedly, ushering them both onstage. "Don't worry, you'll do fine. Just remember, Margaret, not to scream too loud in the second act when Rorick kidnaps you." He nodded, placing them just so onstage, ready for the curtain to go up.

"Sophie always screamed too loud." Margaret whispered. "Oh, god, Peter, who am I joking? I'm going to mess this whole thing up."

"Margaret. You'll do fine. Once a queen, always a queen, right?" Peter assured her, smiling.

She nodded, managing a small smile as the curtain opened, any dark doubts fading away with the stage lights. There could be no going back now.

* * *

Those of you rooting for Sophie's downfall, (in this case literally), I hope you liked it. It was the best comeuppance I could conjure without straying too far from the script insomuch as the play was concerned- although I must give props to those of you who wanted Sophie to get slapped. I may work that in later.

This chapter is short by necessity- the next one is a tad longer.


	10. Chapter 10

Margaret's fears in regards to her performance were unfounded- she was, in Peter's mind, perfection embodied, grace and dignity in every inflection of her voice. Where Sophie had been overblown, she seemed genuine, and in some little corner of his heart Peter regretted not being able to stay in Narnia, for she would have made a wonderful queen.

But the lights were going down now, and there was wild clapping from the sea of darkness beyond the edge of the stage- the first act was finished. Between the hullabaloo backstage to change the set for the second act and his costume change and her costume change Peter did not have a chance to tell Margaret what a wonderful job she had done. They sailed into act two without a spare word, the curtain coming up to cheers and shouts.

Peter was acutely aware, now, that there was some old sentimentalist in the front row who was crying and sniffling very loudly, a critic somewhere to her right that was whispering to his neighbor, and a young mother with a baby who had just walked out. But it was the last scene- the magic of the lights and the stage was softly beginning to fade as he said his last soliloquy to the audience, Margaret dead but breathing at his feet.

"Here was the noblest kindest, gentlest, and most pure-

wise in love, and just within her sphere:

Lest we should lay her rest without her mean,

Let every person know- here was a queen."

Peter had hated this speech- how could he give such words, even if it was only acting, to Sophie? Unkind, loud, unwholesome- she was everything a queen should never be. But with Margaret, every part of him trembled to say it; here was indeed a queen.

The curtain closed- the play was finished. Peter waited until the final slivers of light had disappeared behind the curtain before dropping his hand and picking Margaret up off the stage and kissing her, hard.

"You were wonderful." He whispered, and Margaret laughed, crying.

"I can't keep you to myself, Peter." She said, her makeup streaking, nodding to the rest of the cast, streaming towards the stage door. "Go get your laurels- I'll catch up."

Peter was mobbed outside the door from backstage out into the foyer by professors and friends, clapping him on the back and telling him what a fine job he had done. Girls shoved programs and pens in his face, which he signed to the best of his ability.

When the crowd had thinned a little he looked around, trying to find his mother. She had just walked out of the theater, and her eyes lit up when she saw her son. He ran to meet her, his stage shoes making an odd noise on the tile. She hugged him. "I was never so proud before in my life." She managed. They broke apart, and Peter looked around.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked, watching the doors. There was Susan, and Lucy, both smiling from ear to ear, and Edmund, and, behind them, a tall faded sort of man wearing a suit that looked too big for him. Peter's incredulous smile stretched from ear to ear.

"Dad?" He asked, and the man looked up from the tiles and smiled.

Yes, there he was- paler and thinner than Peter remembered, threadbare and worn around the elbows, but still the same dear old Dad Peter remembered from so many happy childhood memories.

When they hugged, Peter knew he'd been ill- there was less muscle over his shoulders, and his whole person seemed frailer.

"What…Where?" Peter couldn't form a whole sentence, and his father smiled wanely.

"I've been in a POW camp, Petey-Boy. I've been sick for a while, and then in a hospital in France till I could travel. But I got home all right, didn't I?" he asked rhetorically, looking at his son. "When did you grow up, Petey-Boy?" Dad asked, hugging his son again, tears in his eyes.

There was a discreet cough behind him, and he broke apart to see Margaret there, smiling at the reunion. Peter blushed and looked at his feet.

"Ah…Dad, Mom, this is Margaret- she was the stand in for Sophie tonight. She's…" he hesitated, not knowing how exactly to put this, and then smiled with abandon. "She's my girlfriend."

Susan shook her head and smiled, Lucy laughed and hugged Margaret and told her she had done a wonderful job, and Edmund just shook her hand, his shocked stare at Peter giving way to amusement. Mrs. Pevensie didn't seem to know what to do with herself, her tears starting again and finally settling for a hug.

Ed called over to Peter and Margaret, his coat looking ridiculous over his black tights and cape, which he hadn't bothered to take off. "Twin Moon Taproom, you two! Can't be a cast party without our leading lord and lady!" he reminded them, bounding out of the door.

"We don't have to go…" Peter started, but Mrs. Pevensie waved them off, telling them to have a good time and not to stay out too late and not to forget their coats and take ill; she was silenced moments later by Susan, who leaned over and patted her mother's shoulder, whispering something to her.

Margaret took Peter's hand as they dashed outside, forgetting the cold in the mad rush of first show finish giddiness, the lights of the hallway spilling out behind them for moments before the doors closed.

"I could learn to dearly love your mother, Peter." She said to him, her hand the only thing keeping him warm as they walked towards the Taproom, a few minute's walk away.

"Oh, you could, could you?" Peter asked, smiling at her. She nodded, exuberant.

"Your dad, too. And your siblings…I told you I would like them." She reminded him.

"You did." Peter admitted.

"What are your feelings on big families, Peter?" Margaret asked, her hand unusually warm in his.

Peter rolled his eyes. "A tiny bit early to be thinking about that, Margaret." He chided, still smiling at how happy she made him feel.

"I suppose you're right." She laughed, and ran ahead, disappearing into the darkness to reappear under the hazy circle of a street lamp's beam. "Well, aren't you coming?" she called to him.

Peter looked at her, the light on her hair a sort of halo under the street light. He shook his head and followed after her, smiling, catching her in the circle of light and then leaving it again to press onward into the darkness.

The street was silent except for the sound of their laughter, fading into the distance, leaving only the lamppost on the darkened street, a lamp that blinked, flickered uncertainly for a few moments, and then went out.


	11. Epilogue

I am sorry. It is, indeed, over. I thought it should have been quite obvious. I was wrong.

Evidently some of you didn't pick up on the symbol of the lamppost going out as an end to several things- childhood( and along with that, Narnia), as well as the story. So here's the epilogue, a few bits and pieces of what may have happened afterwards.

now, who can spot the three jokes in here?three things that might be references to something else...

* * *

Margaret let her bags down in a huff, watching five year old Jack sprint past her up the stairs.

"Mind that statue, Jack!" She shouted up to him, but the little tyke was so engrossed in relishing his freedom after a five hour train ride he paid her no heed, hurtling up to explore three floors of rooms. Margaret wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, all too conscious of the sweat stains that must be showing through her cotton summer dress already. Peter came in with the last set of suitcases, setting them beside hers and looping his hands around her waist, resting his head on hers.

"Happy to be on vacation yet, dear?" he asked, swaying back and forth in a little dance.

"I don't know how it'll be a vacation, watching Jack all the time and making sure he doesn't break everything. How did you find this place, anyway?" she asked, looking around at the dark wood and vaulted, vaguely gothic ceilings of the Bed and Breakfast Peter had found for their summer vacation.

"Family friend. We spent a summer down here as kids." Peter said mysteriously, still rocking back and forth. "The owner turned it into a B and B a while back when he couldn't keep the place up- it's brought back so many memories." He kissed Margaret's hair. "I'll take the bags up- the bath is that way, if you want to get ready for lunch." He pointed up the stairs, and Margaret followed the path her son had taken, trying every door to find the bath room.

Eventually, she found it, washing her hands and splashing water on her face- it had to be one of the hottest summers on record, she thought to herself, studying her face in the mirror.

She looked good, for thirty years and one child- still slim, still unlined around her lips and eyes. Her hair wasn't showing signs of gray, still thick, and brown as well-baked bread. Had it really been ten years since she'd met Peter? She could see herself then- she hadn't changed much, grown taller, perhaps, and a little thicker around the waist, but she was still the same Margaret. But she was Margaret Pevensie now.

"If you've finished powdering your nose, Queen Peg, I'll show you where we're sleeping." Peter said, poking his nose through the not-all-the-way-closed door.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that." Margaret said, letting herself be girlishly dragged by the wrist down the hall. Peter opened the door before bodily picking her up and carrying her though the door. "Mrs. Pevensie, welcome to your new home for the next two weeks." He said, dropping her on the bed and falling in next to her. "Where's the little devil got off to?" he asked, kissing the side of Margaret's neck. "Because after five hours on a train and no sleep …"

"Peter, I don't know!" his wife exclaimed. "No, no…not now…not in the middle of the day…Jack might come in."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "But you owe me, remember that." He said, getting up and pointing his finger at her. "Lunch is almost ready, so come down when you've changed."

"I'm not hungry…I may just take a nap." Margaret confessed, and her husband shrugged.

"Suit yourself. But if you get hungry later, don't blame me." He added, leaving the room and closing the door almost all the way.

Margaret processed this lazily, lying back and staring at the patterns the sun was making on the ceiling. Her rest, however, was disturbed by the patter of little shoes on the hard wood floor outside, the creak of the door opening and banging against the wall, and little sticky hands pulling at her wrist.

"Mama, mama, come and see!" Little Jack shouted into her ear. Sighing, Margaret got up and smiled for her son.

"What did you find, Jack?" she asked brightly, getting up. Jack pulled her out of the room, up a flight of stairs and around a corner, up another flight of stairs to an open door.

"Look, Mama, a BOX." Jack said, pointing. At the grand old age of five, the great world of boxes and their contents fascinated Jack, and it was all Margaret could do to keep him from voiding all boxes of their loads so he could crawl in them. But the great grand object in front of Jack was no box at all.

"Silly Jack, that's not a box." Margaret said, taking his hand. "That's a wardrobe. Like your closet at home, where you put clothes. See?" She opened it up, and Jack crinkled his nose.

"It smells funny." He said, smiling at his mother. Margaret nodded.

"Those are mothballs, Jack. To keep the moths from…" She paused, remembering something, "Eating the coats." She pointed to the ratty fur coats hanging there. "And speaking of eating, if you want any lunch you'll want to get down to the kitchen, before Daddy eats it all. He told me he was really hungry." She confided to her son, who zoomed out of the room and down the stairs before she could mention that there might be the possibility of sardines with his crackers if he was a good boy and behaved himself.

But she did not stir to go downstairs- she stood there, staring into the wardrobe, her brow creased, reminiscing with a faint smile. She reached in a hand, to brush the coat again, and a cool breeze passed like a feather over the back of her hand. She retracted it, as though she might have accidentally touched something wholly untouchable.

"There's a lot of different ways you can be a queen, Peg." Peter had told her once, a long time ago in a far away place where there were talking lions and fauns and mermaids, in a fairy tale land where she'd sworn to herself never to let this man walk out of her life. She'd never forgotten that, really- every time he called her Queen Peg she remembered it, though she supposed that it was long gone from his mind. She remembered it the day they were married, and his younger sister said that she looked like a queen in her white dress with pearls at her throat. "You should know!" she told Lucy, who chuckled and shushed her. She remembered it the day Jack was born, and Peter had said she looked like she could conquer the world, sitting in that hospital bed with her face as red as autumn leaves and her entire body covered in sweat.

She looked thoughtfully at the fur coats, hanging in their neat rows, and closed the wardrobe with a click.

Yes, she could always be a queen, she reminded herself with a secretive little smile, replacing the sheet over the wardrobe. And closing the door to the little room as tightly as she could, she went back down the stairs to join her family for lunch.

* * *

_finis_


End file.
